Thankful
by emeraldorchids
Summary: It's almost Thanksgiving and Runway's latest feature asks its staff, "What are you thankful for?" With a little help from Nigel, Miranda and Andrea might just be able to put the past two years behind them. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Nearly two years and not a day went by that she didn't think of her. Hear her. Feel her. Miss her. Miranda took a deep breath and tried to shake the memories of the younger woman from her mind.

"Miranda, what's with you today?" Nigel asked as they were walking out of the third-quarter all-hands meeting.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about _you_," he said, reaching out for her wrist and forcing her to face him. "I can tell something's going on. Talk to me."

"It's nothing, really. I have lots to do," she said twisting her arm away and marching down the hallway.

"So it's not about her?" Nigel said, causing Miranda to stop abruptly. "Your foul mood has nothing to do with Ahn—"

"Stop. _Stop_!" She turned around, her eyes focused on the floor. "Of course it's about _her_. It's always about her, isn't it?"

"Miranda, I—"

"Just stop. I do not wish to discuss this with you. Not here, not now, not ever. Am I understood?"

Nigel rolled his eyes. "Sure thing, boss."

Later that evening, in bed, Miranda was disinterestedly flipping through the pages of the book. Either the designs were boring or she was preoccupied, and even she knew the answer to that. "I can't keep doing this," she whispered, closing the book and tossing it to the side. "I can't. God, I miss her. I'm such an idiot."

She reached over to her bedside table and grabbed her journal and pen. Turning to a blank page, she began to write.

_Andrea, I miss you so much. I made a mistake—so many mistakes. I wish there was something I could say or do to make it up to you. Lord knows I've tried, haven't I? And I've done nothing more than made a fool of myself. I'm a pathetic old woman who's madly in love with a smart, savvy, successful woman half her age, someone who can surely do better than this. But will the others love you as much? Cherish you, care for you, provide for you? Not that you need it. Actually, scratch that. You don't want that. You don't want to be cherished, you just want to be loved. God knows you've made me watch that movie a hundred times. I just miss you, so much. My shrink tells me I need to accept it and move on, but I can't. I just can't. It doesn't feel right. Being with you, now that feels right. If you don't want—I mean, I would even settle for just friends. Not settle, but if it's the sexual or romantic relationship you don't want, could we just be friends? I admit it would be really difficult, but I can't bear the thought of living the rest of my life without you in it somehow. Like physically in it. In reality. In my reality. I never knew love until you, and I'll admit I never learned to appreciate it until you were gone. I suppose this is what I deserve. I've been horrible to people my entire life—I built my career on it—and this is just karma. Our website has a feature on it now where we've asked all of our staff what they're thankful for. Of course we've encouraged everyone to include fashion-related items to their lists, but mine… I wrote that I am thankful for family and good health, but I wanted to say I am thankful for YOU, darling. For you and for all that you are. For everything you've taught me, for the parts of me you've made come alive, for the love I hadn't felt before you. I am most thankful for you, the love of my life, my best friend. I am thankful to have had you for the three years I did. What am I saying? I am a pathetic old woman. You are better off without me. You deserve so much better. Be well, my darling. xo M_

Miranda closed the diary and tossed it on the table before turning out the light and going to sleep.

The following week, Nigel invited Miranda for a little dinner party on Saturday evening. He often threw soirees like this for various designers who were in town. Miranda wasn't sure who would be there, but nonetheless, she selected an exquisite bottle of wine from her cellar and tied a vintage Hermes scarf around it as a gift for the host. Since she had been giving her driver weekends off, she grabbed her keys and drove herself to Nigel's loft in the one quiet street in Chelsea.

"Hello, it's me," she said after ringing the buzzer.

"Oh, Miranda, um, you're early. Come on up," he said, unlocking the door.

When Miranda got upstairs, Nigel's door was open, so she walked inside and searched for her friend. "Nigel, I'm so sorry, I thought for sure you said 6:00."

"No, it's always been 7:00. Not a problem, though. I'm running behind, anyway. Since you're here, do you mind stirring this while I finish setting the table on the terrace?"

"Of course," she said, setting the bottle on the kitchen counter where she could find space.

"I've yet to finish the dessert. It's a pâte à choux. The custard for the profiteroles is in the fridge setting up. I just don't want this to overcook."

"It's been ages since I've made a choux pastry, but I think I can handle it from here. When it's ready, shall I just scoop them onto the sheet in balls?"

"Exactly. Hopefully it won't take me that long," he said.

As Miranda stirred the choux, she remembered how much she liked baking. The kitchen smelled wonderful and she was happy—relieved, even—to be of use. It helped keep her mind off of… "Andrea!"

"Hello, Miranda."

"What— why— where—? Jesus, I can't string a sentence together. What are you doing here?"

"Well, Nigel invited me to his dinner party, but told me to be here at 7:00, which is apparently an hour early. What are you doing here?"

Miranda pursed her lips. "Nigel!" she called.

"What time is everyone else arriving, Nigel?" Andrea asked.

"Is there even a dinner party tonight?" Miranda added.

"You see, I love you both dearly, and you've both been absolutely miserable. There is a dinner party, but it's only for two. I'm staying in a hotel for the night. Spend some time thinking about what you're thankful for, will you?" he said.

Before either woman could react, Nigel was gone.

"Andrea—"

"I should go—"

Andrea chuckled and reached for her coat. "I should go."

It was as though the older woman's muscles were frozen. She didn't want the young woman to leave, but she couldn't stop her. Tears began streaming from her eyes as she slowly sank to the floor.

"You know, I can't beli—" Andrea stopped and looked down at the woman.

"I'm such a fool," Miranda cried. "A pathetic, old, fool."

"Here," Andrea said as she reached out her hand. "Let me help you up, Miranda."

"I don't need your help!" she spat back.

Andrea crouched down and placed her arm around the woman's shoulders. "I know you don't _need_ it. Let's sit and talk, shall we?"

"Okay," Miranda said quietly as she tried to regain her composure. The truth was—it felt wonderful to have the young woman's arm around her again. Once she was upright, though, she brushed the woman's arm away. "Right, now what is there to discuss?"

"Miranda, don't do this. Let's talk—really talk—about _us_. If you're anything like me, you've been a mess these past two years. I'm talking crying all the time, hundreds of hours of therapy, unable to form normal relationships let alone romantic ones—is any of this sounding familiar?"

Miranda looked up and smiled. "Unfortunately, it does," she said, taking a deep breath. "Oh god, I've missed you."

"And I, you."

.

.

_To be continued in Part 2_


	2. Chapter 2

The women were glad the weather allowed them to dine on the terrace, as the kitchen was filled with smoke after Miranda neglected the choux dough on the stovetop. The mood was tense, and Miranda was nervous for the conversation that would undoubtedly follow after there was no food or dishes to occupy them.

"So," Andrea said.

"So."

"Uhm, so can we talk? Like _talk_ talk?"

"I suppose we must."

Andrea sighed and rolled her eyes, walking over to the counter to refill her wine glass. "Look, if you don't want to talk, just leave," she said. "You're good at that," she whispered into her wine glass.

"I want to talk. I'm… scared, though."

"Of what?"

"You. Losing you again. Saying the wrong thing. You name it." Miranda's eyes were focused on the wine she was swirling in her glass.

"I'm scared, too," Andrea admitted. "Let's go sit in the other room, okay?"

Miranda nodded and followed Andrea into the living room, where Nigel left a sheet of paper that said "do not sit" on every chair and sofa cushion. She pushed the tented piece of paper away and sat on the leather sofa, tucking her feet underneath her.

"Uh, if Nigel didn't want us to sit here…" Andrea started, looking around the room for somewhere to sit that didn't have a note.

"I've known Nigel too long. I'm sure that the bed in the loft is the only other surface where sitting is allowed," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Ah, I get it," Andrea replied. "And you'd never share a bed with me, right?"

"What? No!" Miranda said, jumping up off the couch. "No. That's not what I said. I just want to make sure we actually talk. Would you rather take this upstairs?"

Andrea nodded, finished her wine, and set the glass on the coffee table before heading up the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the master-turned-guest bedroom.

"Do you remember when we convinced Nigel to switch bedrooms? After his knee surgery?" Miranda asked, following Andrea up the stairs.

"Yeah. He thought he'd be able to climb up here every day, multiple times a day."

"It might have been ok if there was a bathroom up here for him. I'm surprised he didn't turn it into a study—it's such a gorgeous space," Miranda remarked, looking around.

"His knee isn't the same. He can't make it up and down these stairs. Hence, a guest room," Andrea said. When Miranda looked at her quizzically, she explained that she had simply asked Nigel about it last time she was over.

Miranda kicked off her shoes and crawled up onto the sprawling California king bed. "It's a shame this bed wouldn't fit in the downstairs bedroom," she said.

"Is it?" Andrea asked, smiling devilishly as she laid back on the bed and sighed. She crawled up to the head of the bed and crossed her legs underneath her. "So…"

"Andrea, this might seem like an odd request, but can I hug you first—before we really start talking?"

The younger woman smiled and nodded, reaching over and wrapping her arms around the woman. As they held each other tight, Andrea could hear little sighs escaping Miranda's lips. She buried her head in her neck and inhaled the scent she had been missing for all those years. She sighed and held the woman closer.

"Oh Andrea," Miranda sighed, softly brushing her lips along the young woman's neck and jaw. "Andrea, Andrea, Andrea…"

Andrea's hand reached up and held the woman's face, its fingertips tracing the familiar features. When her fingers reached Miranda's lips, she gently pried them open and started to lean in for a kiss, the other woman's movement mirroring her own.

"Wait—" Andrea said, pulling away. "Shouldn't we talk first?"

Miranda groaned in frustration and fell back into the pillows, her hand coming up to hide the embarrassment on her face. "I guess," she said as she tried to steady her breathing.

Andrea leaned back against the headboard and rearranged some pillows. "Here," she said, "come lay with me. We can talk like this. I know you always loved sitting like this."

Miranda quickly curled up alongside Andrea and wrapped her arm around the young woman's waist, her head resting on her chest. "Thank you. I still do," she said.

With her arm draped around the woman's shoulders, Andrea squeezed her gently and began stroking her back. "Do you remember why we broke up?" Andrea asked after some time.

"No. I should, but I don't," Miranda said.

"I don't really, either. I remember you getting up and walking out of my apartment. And I remember everything after, but I don't remember what made you leave. What were we even talking about?"

Miranda sighed. "I don't know. It was a crazy time at Runway, with Irv being fired and all, so I don't think it would have taken much to upset me, but it was just so—so final."

"The past few years, I've been blaming myself. If I can't remember it, it must have been something I said or did that I'm too ashamed to admit, right? I just wish I could remember."

"Oh sweetheart," Miranda said, gently biting her lip after letting that nickname slip. "You're no more to blame than me. In fact, you're probably less to blame than me."

Andrea shrugged. "The first few days, I felt nothing but despair. I wasn't angry or in denial or anything. I just felt this profound loss. An emptiness I never want to feel again."

Miranda reached for the young woman's hand and squeezed it gently. "And after that?" she asked.

"I went back to work. I thought that diving into work would help take my mind off of my personal life, but it didn't. It got worse. I had to take a leave of absence for six weeks," Andrea said. "You probably didn't know that."

"Oh my gosh, no, I didn't. Sweetheart, I'm so sorr—"

"Don't apologize. We don't know who caused it," Andrea quickly interrupted.

"Okay. I'm sorry you had to go through that, though. Truly."

"Thanks. I found a good psychiatrist, so that's something good that came from it. The weeks and months and years after that only got marginally better, though."

"I can certainly agree with the last part. Because I'm me, I wouldn't let my private anguish affect my work, so I kept it all in. I spent months pretending I wasn't hurting, pretending that I didn't miss you terribly," Miranda said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Miranda sat up and looked Andrea in the eye. "I am grateful for you, darling. I need you to see that. You were the best thing to happen to me, and I didn't appreciate you like I should have," she said. She reached up to wipe the tears forming at the corner of her eye. "I'm not just saying this because you're here in front of me. When _Runway_ was doing this digital feature with the staff earlier this month, you are the only thing I could think of. What am I grateful for? You. You, you you. Always you."

"I still love you," Andrea said softly.

"And I, you. But?"

"No buts."

Miranda arched her eyebrow and tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on the younger woman.

"I love you. I've always loved you. I will never stop loving you," Andrea said, smiling. "Do you seriously have nothing to say to that?"

"If you loved me, why did you stay away so long?" Miranda asked. "I thought you didn't love me anymore. I thought maybe you never loved me, or that there'd be someone else, younger and more suited to you. I thought I wasn't enough for you."

"You were the one who left, Miranda. I spent months trying to figure out what I did wrong, beating myself up over it. And you know what? If you came back at any point, I would have been so happy. But you never came back. You never even called me. What was I supposed to think?!"

"You could have called me," Miranda shouted.

"I thought you hated me. I thought you were done with me, that you wanted nothing to do with me!" Andrea said. "Why would I have called you?"

"Oh dear god," Miranda said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Look, I love you. I still love you, too. And I've never stopped loving you. Was this really just one terrible miscommunication?"

"I think it was a little more than that, but the lack of communication certainly didn't help things," Andrea said. "Tell me, where are you now?"

"How so?"

"How is your heart?" Andrea asked.

Miranda bit her lower lip. "It aches for you. And yours?"

"Same," Andrea said. "Shall we—"

"Pick up where we left off?" Miranda asked.

"I was going to say 'start again,'" Andrea replied.

"Reconnect?"

"Yes, I like that," Andrea said as she repositioned herself next to Miranda. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

"If you don't I will," Miranda said.

.

.

.

The end.


End file.
